


Up the Airy Mountain

by LoreBreaker



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Disabled Character, Other, POV Second Person, faerytale au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5920126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoreBreaker/pseuds/LoreBreaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faeries lie. Not with words, because they can't, but with intentions, and appearances, and glamour. Never assume you know what a faerie means.</p><p>Faeries steal. Children, hearts, souls. And getting them back is likely to leave you worse off than before. Never assume you know what a faerie wants.</p><p>Faeries cheat. If you make a deal with a faerie, you won’t come out best. You'd better be sure it's worth it. Never let yourself become indebted to a faerie, or you'll end up losing something you probably can’t afford.</p><p>Back when everyone remembered that faeries lived under the mountain, that was all common knowledge. Of course, knowing it now probably won't help you. Chances are, you won't know you're dealing with a faerie until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Rabbit Slippers

You don’t often go out at night anymore. Logic says it’s just common sense not to put yourself in harm’s way, though when in winter it gets dark barely halfway through the afternoon that excuse hardly holds up. The truth is, it scares you.

It’s not quite winter yet, but it’s late enough in the year that it’s getting dark well before the shops close. You were out of coffee, the walk should have been short, and the streets well lit. Not the sort of trip to concern most people.

The goose-flesh crawling up your spine is telling you that you absolutely should be concerned right now.

It’s getting late, sure, but there isn’t a single car on the road. No sound of distant traffic. No lights in any of the buildings. You’re wishing you hadn’t decided to be so rational tonight. In the back of your mind something is insistently telling you that you shouldn’t be here right now. You should really, really leave.

Honestly, you’d like to comply. Except somehow, ten minutes from your apartment, you’re lost. Every turn down a road that should take you closer to home seems to lead somewhere completely different. Everything has the right shape, but in the way of a film set facade. Give it a firm push, and it could topple right over.

There’s always been something a bit _different_ about this town. It always felt like there was something you were missing. A corner-of-the-eye, itch-you-can’t-scratch sort of feeling. The nights especially always felt like they held more than they let on. Your Grandmother could tell too. When you used to visit her here as a child she’d tell you stories about the things she’d seen in the shadows, and give you nightmares for weeks afterwards. You remember seeing things here. Impossible things. You knew they were impossible because the grown-ups told you so, all except your Grandmother.

Eventually you stopped mentioning them to anyone else. The impossible things never really went away though, even when you stopped coming here. When you moved halfway across the country and never had the time to visit. It had been easy enough to put it down to an overactive childhood imagination and an overly enabling, half-senile family member.

Since moving back it’s obvious you’d been right. This place was different. Being back in the shadow of the mountain, it felt like something inside that had been quiet for a long time was awake again. Perhaps you should have listened to it better, because this situation is way beyond any of the vaguely odd things you’ve experienced before.

Going right looks like the road you want, that hairdresser on the corner is there, but the church spire behind doesn’t belong and the name isn’t right at all. Left is completely wrong, but you recognise the street name. Unfortunately it’s for a street that should be half an hour in the opposite direction. Gut feeling says neither are good choices.

You take the right, really just guessing at this point, and come face-to-face with something which clearly dragged itself from the deepest abyssal plain of the ocean. And then, somehow, dressed itself in a ragged sweatshirt and dungarees.

It grins — an expression that seems made for it.

_Nothing on earth should have that many teeth._

As last thoughts go, it’s not a particularly profound one.

Your shopping bag hits the ground as the thing that shouldn’t exist takes a step forward. It hisses. For some reason this does not surprise you, though this doesn’t make it any less horrifying. What should have been a scream chokes out of, the strangled breath sucked straight from your lungs before it could make a sound.

Fortunately, instinct quickly takes over where rational thought has failed, and the horror of teeth and eyes takes a metal walking stick straight to the misshapen maw. The knee it’s supposed to be supporting twinges in protest, but the look of complete incomprehension on the thing’s face, as if this turn of events hadn’t even crossed it’s mind, is totally worth it. For a second, at least. It hadn’t even flinched.

You take a step back, forget to put the stick back down, and your knee gives out.

This is it. This is how you die. Half on the floor and not able to make a sound.

Then something unseen grabs it by the scruff of the neck and yanks it backwards a good few feet. A tall, lanky figure charges out of the shadows, skids to a halt, and tackles the horror just as it gets to it’s feet. The thing is lifted into a crushing bear-hug, stick-like limbs flailing as it shrieks in displeasure.

“HUMAN! IF I MAY, I WOULD SUGGEST YOU LEAVE NOW.” Solid advice really. In the face of gut-clenching terror, it seems fair that you’re not in a state to notice unnecessary epithets. You leg it.

Or, rather, you limp rapidly. Adrenaline makes the pain easier to ignore. You won’t win any races, but make it to the end of the road.

Behind you there’s some indistinct shouting, and then a sound like a bag of coat hangers being thrown down the stairs. Then silence. You hesitate. Should you go back to help?

The inhuman shriek that echoes down the street, too high pitched and clearly angry, shoots straight to your spine pushes out any left-over rational thought. While it’d be great to know exactly what the hell was going on, animal instinct in the face of something that screams ‘predator’ is very difficult to ignore. The need to run run run, or your best approximation at least, overrules everything.

Cold air burns in the throat, and this pace isn’t going to be maintained for long. You’re pretty sure you know where you are now, which is great because the sound of footsteps is echoing off the buildings, out of sync with your own. A quick turn left followed by an immediate right, and what should have been a short cut turns out to be a dead end.

Ok, no, this is how you die. Choking down air and not able to tell left from right.

Doubling over to catch your breath is the only thing you can manage. Your lungs are burning and pain sears up your leg in a way that says even if that thing isn’t right behind you, you’re going to be having a bad time anyway.

“you ok there pal? look a little winded.”

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. It takes a second to spot the figure leaning casually against the wall, like it’s the most comfortable place in the world. Relief at running into another person, and possible help, wars briefly with finely honed stranger-danger senses. People lurking in dark alleys are generally to be avoided. But, on the other hand… nothing should have that many teeth.

“Behind me— someone, something, I don’t know— Teeth! Lots of teeth!” is all that makes it out between ragged breaths.

You clearly fail to communicate the gravity of the situation, because the guy doesn’t move a muscle. After a second, he peers behind you. “i think you lost ‘em bud.”

Now that the running has stopped and the blood isn’t rushing so hard in your ears you can tell the footsteps following have stopped. A tentative glance over your shoulder confirms it, there’s nothing there. Well, now you’re just standing in a dark alley, with a stranger who probably thinks you’re on drugs. Great.

He pushes away from the wall, but stays at a non-threatening distance, for which you’re quietly thankful. “so, since we got time then, how’d you manage to get here anyway?”

“What.” Of all the questions, that’s the one he went with? “What do you mean? I... walked?”

“i mean it didn’t, i dunno, seem like a bad idea? you didn’t feel an urgent need to be somewhere else instead?”

“After I saw that thing I did, yeah. Pretty sure that’s a normal response!” You might be sounding a little hysterical.

“i mean before that.” What exactly is it he’s looking for here?

“A little, I guess. I mean, that’s how I usually feel when I have to go out.” He gives you a long look, then shrugs.

“welp, never mind. but you should probably make like a banana and get outta here. if-” he cuts off abruptly, looking at something over your shoulder.

There’s a soft hissing sound from the other end of the street. It’s somehow worse than the screaming from earlier. You’re half terrified to look, knowing what you’ll see, but letting something like that stand behind you unobserved seems a much worse option.

It’s not the same one from earlier. You can tell because this one is wearing a bobble hat. It’s not at all as amusing as it should be.

“i guess that would be the ‘thing’ you were talking about?”

“Close enough.” You think the fact that your voice is steady should count for something, even if you can’t move your legs. Said ‘thing’ takes a slow step forward, raising it’s hand. Oh, good, it has claws too.

“i see why you fixated on the teeth.”

You don’t see him take even a step towards you, but in a second cold and surprisingly skinny fingers latch around your wrist and you’re yanked away.

“But that’s a dead end!”

“don’t worry, i know a shortcut.”

Turns out it wasn’t a dead end after all. In complete defiance to the fact that there was a solid wall to the back of a takeaway there a second ago, he’s leading down a gradually narrowing street.

Your stick gets tangled between your legs and drops from your grip. It clatters to the ground somewhere behind, but there’s no way on earth you’re stopping for it now. You don’t seem to need it right now anyway. You’re not running, there’s no physical way you could be in this state, but you seem to be covering a lot of ground very quickly. Trying to figure out how makes you nearly sick, so you stop.

The buildings on either side get gradually more decrepit as the pair of you pick up speed. Peeling bricks give way to pitted stone, and then damp wood. The smell of wood-smoke and damp moss become near overwhelming, and the ground is rushing away beneath.

Eventually your guide slows a little. The narrow street becomes a maze of twisty little passages, all alike, with walls of rough hewn rock. The air is thick, and the pain and dizziness are making it impossible to keep track of the route you’re taking. If he lets go now there’s be no hope of retracing your steps. You’d be lost forever, wherever you are right now.

“Where are we?” It comes out a horse whisper.

“nearly there,” is all the answer you get.

Abruptly the passage opens out into pitch darkness, the sudden feeling of enormous space leaving you breathless. He stops.

“hey, just be real quiet for a sec, ok?” You don’t need telling. Speaking here just feels like a bad idea.

The sheer size of the space you can’t see feels crushing. There’s a distant noise, like rushing water. Or deep, slow breathing. If not for his hand around your wrist, grounding you, you might come apart and disappear into the dark.

“ok, we’re good.” You’re moving again. There’s light again, and concrete underfoot. In a second the surrounding buildings are familiar. He lets go.

“We’re half-way across town.”

“huh, so we are. how’d that happen?”

Now there’s time and light to actually get a good look at him. As you thought, he’s short and broad. There’s an definite impression of a blue hoodie and, slippers? He has a very… average sort of face. You’re so exhausted that everything else keeps slipping out of focus, and the second you look away the details of it escape you. Actually, passing out seems like it’d be a great idea right now.

“alright there kid?”

“I dropped my stick.” It comes out slightly slurred. You feel wrung out. “Think you could give a little warning next time you’re going to yank me off my feet?”

“sure. i’ll _run_ it by you first, if it’ll make it easier for you to _stick_ with me.” It’s clear by the emphasis that the puns are deliberate. Really? At a time like this? You don’t deem them worthy of even an eye roll. “gotta say, you’re taking this whole thing pretty well.” You’re shaking slightly, and you head is starting to buzz.

“I think I might throw up.” He takes a quick step back. You don’t, as it happens, but it’s a close thing.

“so, think you can make your way home without your stick? gotta say, going back right now probably ain’t a great idea.” He seems a little concerned. Perhaps, anyway, it’s difficult to tell when you’re not sure what his face is supposed to look like.

“From here?” It’d be asking for a world of pain, plus an extra hour or so before getting home. “Maybe?” A slight shift in stance makes icy-hot agony shoot from knee to hip. “Ah, maybe not.”

This is, not good. Maybe you’ve got enough cash for a taxi? A quick inventory of your pockets reveals that you do, but you left your phone at home. Crap. Having a completely mundane problem to focus on helps you to feel a little more normal at least.

“Uh, think I could borrow your phone to call for a ride?” Your rescuer has been watching you do the pocket-pat dance, with accompanied quiet swearing, while silently grinning.

“don’t have it on me. uh, i guess i can walk you home. won’t take long. you can owe me a favour.” His grin widens. It’s the least threatening one you’ve seen all evening. Not that that’s saying much. “really giving me a workout tonight kid. c’mon, i know a shortcut.”

“Is it... anything like the last one?” That was certainly an experience, but one to be hesitant of repeating in a non life-threatening situation.

“nah, this one’s a short shortcut. no chance of being followed this time.”

“Ok, then thanks.”

“remember to click your heels three times, or we could end up anywhere.”

There’s no hand holding involved this time, which is a bit of a relief. No dizzying sense of covering too much ground either, which is a lot of a relief. Thinking about that still makes your stomach churn.

It is shorter, though no more explicable. The familiar sight of your street coming into view feels like waking up from a nightmare.

“anyway, gotta go. my bro’ll be thinking i didn’t do my job properly, thanks to you.”

“Sorry.” The apology is automatic, even if you don’t know what you did. “But wait, what just happened? And what were those things?” Since you can think clearly again, you suddenly have a lot of very pressing questions.

“pretty rude thing to call someone just ‘cos they’ve got a weird looking face, don’t you think?” He’s completely deadpan.

“No. I mean, thanks and all for the rescue and the trip home and everything, but there’s no way you’re brushing me off like that. Not after what I just saw.” You just had your entire view of reality shattered, and the guy’s going to just leave? On instinct you reach out to grab his sleeve, but he’s just out of reach.

“look, i’ll be straight with you, i’d love to stay here and answer questions till the sun comes up. it’d be a lot less effort than doing my actual job, but i’ve really gotta get back. my bro needs to know there’s more than one, uh, ‘weird-looking dude’ around.” He thinks for a second. “i’ll make you a deal. drop it for now, and i’ll swing by again tomorrow. you see me again, and i’ll take all the questions you want.”

You’re too tired and in too much pain to argue further. If he’s going to leave there’s not much you can do anyway.

“Yeah, I guess that’s the best offer I’m going to get?”

“yup. oh, and next time you hear that little voice in your head telling you something’s a bad idea. maybe listen to it.”

“In that case I’d never leave the house. Thanks again though.”

“don’t sweat it kid,” he shrugs. It seems a very natural gesture, like it gets a lot of use from him. “also, do me a favour, forget all about this.”

As he speaks your brain gives an uncomfortable jolt. There's a catching sensation, as if something tried to slide through your head and snagged a nerve on the way, and then you realise how absolutely exhausted you are.

He’s gone before you have time to form a sarcastic response. You limp the rest of the way to your apartment, barely making it to bed before you pass out.


	2. A Shortcut to Doughnuts

Waking up sucks. Waking up in an unreasonable amount of pain, and realising you didn’t even manage to get undressed the night before is even worse. You disentangle yourself from your sheets, and run a hand through similarly tangled hair. Your clothes have practically melded themselves to your body, leaving welts in your skin. Jeans are not designed for sleeping in, no matter how comfortable they may feel to wear. At least the urge to stay in bed is easily defeated today, silver linings and all that. You weigh up the pros and cons of taking a shower, finally deciding you feel too gross not to.

More bad news comes in in the form of discovering you’re out of coffee. It had definitely been on the to-do list to get more yesterday, along with several other essentials. The coffee is definitely the problem right now though. The list of things that need doing today, some of which have been put off for way too long already, is daunting. Caffeine is about the only thing that might make it possible. You can’t recall quite why you never got around to going shopping. Yesterday had been a good day, and you’re usually better at taking advantage of those to get things done. In fact, an inspection of your shopping list pad reveals you’d even torn the list off in preparation, though goodness knows where you put it.

Yesterday-you was a failure. Today was _not_ going to be a good day.

The cherry on the shitty morning cake comes when you can’t find your walking stick. After half an hour of checking and double checking every place you’re likely to have put it last night, and then a few places you definitely wouldn’t have, and you give in. A quiet, frustrated cry makes you feel slightly better, before you dig out your backup stick from under the bed — the too-long, non-adjustable one with the uncomfortable grip that someone bought you as a gift once. It has a nice pattern on it, which doesn’t quite make up for the havoc it wreaks on your shoulder.

Forgetting to compensate for the unexpected length leads to the stick catching between your legs briefly. And then it hits you. You dropped your other one. You have no idea where, or why you would do that and not pick it up right away. You definitely dropped in the street it last night though. Which can’t be right, because you didn’t go out last night. Thinking too hard about it causes a wave of nausea. Your head feels full of static and cotton, and you have to sit down for a minute or twenty.

It’s seriously tempting to just not go out today, call it a loss and go back to bed. Unfortunately, the lack of several basic food items (of which coffee is definitely one — you may have a slight fixation) is likely to become a problem pretty quickly. Eventually you cut your to do list down to two items: basic food shopping, and getting your prescription filled. The pharmacy is right by the supermarket, so really it only counts as one task, but thinking of it as two makes you feel a little more accomplished. Everything else can go screw itself.

When you finally make it out of the apartment there’s someone asleep on the bench in the lobby. Their hood is pulled over their face, and they’re snoring away with a sound like a buzz saw cutting through concrete. At least someone is getting some peace. You decide to give them a wide berth.

It’s an irritatingly nice day outside. The smell of freshly cut grass catches you by surprise. It’s such a springtime sort of scent for so late in the year, but it’s so enticing you decide to take a slightly longer route through the park just to enjoy it.

By the time you’ve made it across the park you’re starting to feel a lot better about today. A cheerful sort of fuzziness has come over you. Perhaps you’d been wrong to be so negative earlier. Crossing the road, you hear a snatch of your favourite song. Humming along absent-mindedly, your feet start to follow it to the source without any particular input from your brain.

The song is getting clearer when you catch another delicious scent. One that makes you stomach abruptly remember that you haven’t put anything in it yet today, and it’s already lunch time.

Halfway down the street you spot a sign, with calligraphy so intense you have no idea what it says. Luckily the large picture of a doughnut, and accompanying smell of fresh baking, make it pretty obvious what the place is. The jingle of the door bell as you enter is possibly the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. There are, indeed, doughnuts.

The lady behind the counter is wearing a dress which coordinates perfectly with the decor of the bakery. Everything is very purple, and a little frilly for your taste, but you can’t deny the effort which has clearly gone into it.

“Oh my, you look like you’re not having a good day.” You cringe internally a little that it was apparently so obvious. She smiles understandingly, and shares a conspiratorial wink. “One of these should cheer you right up though.”

“They do look pretty great.” You stand in slight awe of the array of confectionery. There’s soft giggling coming from somewhere in the kitchen, but right now you only have eyes for glazed pastries. “Um, how much for a doughnut?” Nothing has prices on, which probably means it’s a little above your food budget. Today sort of deserves it though.

“On the house, deary.” You blink, a little stunned.

“Really?” You feel something crawling on your arm, but when you look there’s nothing there. “Thank you, but it’s ok, I’m happy to pay for it.” You didn’t come in here expecting charity after all.

“Oh, I insist. It just doesn’t do for someone so _sweet_ ,” she giggles, “to look so sad.”

It’s not just your arm anymore. The feeling is up your legs, under your clothes. You rub your arms, but it doesn’t help.

“That’s very nice of you, but… I really…” She takes a doughnut out of the display case, the one with bright red icing and chocolate sprinkles that you happened to have been eyeing up, and offers it to you with a smile that has a little too much incisor.

You reach out to take it—

—and a bony hand plucks it away before you can grab it.

“doughnut you know not to take food from strangers.”

An uncomfortable jolt of recognition. It’s the same guy from last night. The night that you definitely didn’t go out, and definitely didn’t nearly get eaten by monsters.

He grins at you, waggles the doughnut for emphasis, and then takes a big bite out of it.


	3. Exposition Train to Nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: Knee-Jerk Reaction

“This was a private conversation, Sans. And you’re going to have to pay for that.” The woman’s tone had gone from cajoling, to icy irritation in a heartbeat.

“you mean you’re not giving out free samples? but i heard about it on the web.”

You’re starting to feel claustrophobic, the crawling sensation on your skin only getting worse, so you step outside. A wave of dizziness washing over you. Your head starts to ache as your brain tries to slot in memories of last night that weren’t there a second ago. The conversation inside carries on. You can’t make out the words, but the woman’s voice is getting gradually more irritated.

There’s a small white dog waiting outside. At least it might be waiting, it’s not wearing a collar from what you can see. Actually, it’s running in erratic circles, yipping madly. The noise is not helping your head. When it notices you it trots over and immediately flops across your feet and goes to sleep, effectively preventing you from moving without kicking it off. Which is actually more tempting than it should be. Normally you like animals, but something about this one is just… really…

The bakery door jingles as your stalker slash doughnut thief steps out.

“What the hell was that about?” The dog on your feet immediately jumps up at the sound, and begins running around noisily again. You massage the bridge of your nose and groan.

“she probably saw what went on last night. has eyes everywhere, lots of them.” That doesn’t really answer the question at all.

“That’s not really what I meant. What were you arguing about?”

“the ethical distribution of ‘free’ food to the unsuspecting consumer.” That’s somehow even less help. “i mean, you could do worse, if you want to go back in. she wouldn’t eat you, probably.” He shrugs. “you don’t have arachnophobia, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.”

“ok.” He turns his back on you and begins walking away. The dog follows. You quickly move to catch up and fall into step with him. Not that easy, he moves weirdly fast for someone with such short legs.

“So, it’s Sans, right?”

“you can call me that, sure.”

“Were you sleeping in my apartment block this morning?”

“that was your place? huh, what are the chances?”

“Are you following me?”

“pretty sure you’re following me.” You grit your teeth.

“I meant earlier.”

“why would i do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” you state, tone hard. The deflecting is starting to grate on your nerves. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“hmm, nah.”

“Nah?” You have to consciously unclench your jaw to stop grinding your teeth in frustration.

“nah. i only said i’d take your questions, not that i’d answer them. remember?” He stops then, and actually turns to look at you. “and that’s the problem really. you shouldn’t.”

“No?” His gaze unexpectedly intense, and an uneasy feeling sweeps over you. For the first time you actually feel a little wary of him. Then he shrugs again, and the feeling is gone.

“well, i did ask you to do me a favour and forget.” You’re about to protest that that doesn’t mean anything, except…

“I did forget though. You didn’t say for how long,” you tell him, smugly.

“cute, but that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

“Well how am I supposed to know how it works, since you won’t tell me anything! I don’t know the rules of, whatever this is.” He starts walking away again. “Wait, so you’re really not gonna tell me what happened?” You catch people looking your way and realise you’re on the verge of shouting.

“nope.” Sans is still maddeningly calm.

“Well, you still have to listen to my questions at least. That was the deal.” It’s petulant. You find you don’t care.

You manage to catch hold of his hood and pull him to a stop. He looks genuinely startled for once. It’s pretty satisfying.

“alright,” his shoulders slump slightly. “i give in. how about you buy me lunch and i’ll fill you in.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Sans hums noncommittally.

“c’mon, i know a place. by the way, you never gave me your name.”

Something about the way he says it makes you think of something your Grandmother told you once. Actually, she told you a lot, but you’re pretty sure she was under the impression she only said it once.

“Well, I’ve only got the one, and I’m still using it.” _‘You never really know someone’s name until you hear how they say it.’_ “It’s written on my mail box, if you really want to know. Which you should have seen already, since you’re apparently stalking me.”

He snorts out a laugh. “alright, so maybe i do know it already.”

The place he knows turns out to be a rather greasy cafe, completely empty besides the two of you. The white dog follows the pair of you in, in complete defiance of the ‘no dogs allowed!!!’ sign in the window, and settles itself under a corner table, where it promptly falls asleep again.

You order a ridiculously unhealthy sounding breakfast sandwich and the largest coffee on the menu, pay for a burger for Sans, and then head to the table the dog has apparently chosen. You still have no idea if it actually belongs to Sans or not, but he doesn’t question it. Luckily the table happens to be the furthest from the counter. You have a feeling this conversation is going to be a little weird, and would rather no one was eavesdropping.

You sit down, and roll your shoulder a few times in an attempt to get it to loosen up. “Urgh, wish I had my other stick. This one sucks,” you mutter.

“ah, yeah, sorry about that.”

“It’s ok, you saved the rest of me at least. So, thanks for that.” He shrugs it off.

“ok, a question for a question this time. seem fair?”

“Hang on, I thought I was buying you food, and I got to ask all the questions.” For some reason, the distinction seems important.

“nope. i saved your ass last night, and so you’re buying me dinner. what, you want me to save that one to call in later?”

“Nooo? No, this is fine. Ok, an answer for an answer then.”

“not what i said. but i’ll allow it.”

You stare at your hands for a while, considering what you want to ask first. Sans doesn’t seem to mind, he just waits for you to speak. Your order arrives before you’ve finished thinking it though.

“whoa,” Sans eyes the bucket of coffee you ordered. “you gonna drink that or swim in it?”

“I can’t do both?” You practically stick your head in the mug. It’s over-brewed and has way too much milk in. It’s possibly the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

“just don’t drown, ok.” You roll your eyes at him over the lip of the mug. When it’s half empty you put it down and let out a contented sigh, finally feeling something close to human. “better?”

“Much. Ok, so, first question. What are you?”

“going right in with the big ones, huh?”

“Seems fairly straight forward to me.”

“really. i guess you’d have no problem answering that yourself then.” He dumps an unreasonable amount of ketchup on his burger, and takes a big bite. You can’t quite hide your mild disgust.

“Sure. I’m human.” A huge blob of ketchup leaks out of the burger and plops onto the plate. “Not sure about you right now.”

“that’s not really an answer though, is it? saying you’re human doesn’t cover even half of what you are.” He gestures to you, burger still in hand, and you have to resist the urge to duck. “think about it. you’re a collection of artfully arranged atoms. you’re a specific firing of electrical impulses, housed in a meat suit. you’re a mobile collection of cells, most of which aren’t even yours. you’re made of dead plants, and dead stars, and living flesh and bone. you’re someone’s child, someone’s friend, an extra in someone else’s story. you’re a statistic, a point on a graph among billions of near identical ones, and a being so complexly unique that it can barely be measured. and none of that comes close to actually covering _what_ you really are.”

You blink at him, a little shell-shocked.

“heh, good job you didn’t open with ‘who are you?’. that’s a whole nother kettle of existential crises. so, to answer your question. i’m a person. one that’s pretty similar to you in some respects, and very different in a few very important others. whew, that was a lot of work kid. make the next one a bit easier, could you?”

He picks up the ketchup bottle again, starts to unscrew the cap, and then apparently thinks better of it and puts it down. You take a second to really look at him. His face is frustratingly average. If someone asked you to describe him the best you could come up with would be kinda round. Blue eyes maybe? You try to get a proper look at them, and instead get the disconcerting impression of staring into the void.

“why did you move here?” You jump at his voice, embarrassed you got caught staring.

“My Gran was dying, she needed someone to look after her.” He doesn’t need more of an answer that that, right? It feels a little like cheating, but you’d rather not get any further into it right now. “Why are you following me?”

“i don’t remember admitting to that.” You give him an unimpressed look. “if i did happen to be though, i’d say it was because you’ve demonstrated an interesting ability to get yourself into dangerous situations. i mean, i can leave you to it next time if you prefer.”

“I honestly don’t know if I would or not right now. Especially since I have no idea what’s going on. Which you are not helping with, by the way.”

“you ever had an imaginary friend?”

“That’s a really weird thing to ask.” You try to dig out childhood memories. They’re a little hazy, but you have some recollection of playing by yourself in your Grandmothers garden one summer. “Yeah,” you nod “I think I used to.” Again, he seems satisfied enough with the short answer. “So what actually happened last night? I know what I think happened, but I’m pretty sure I’m missing a lot.”

“hmm, from what i remember you practically fell for me right away. we held hands, i walked you home. kinda romantic now that i think about it.” He’s grinning ear to ear, and you have to fight down the urge to jab a fork in his eye.

“You’re not actually going to tell me anything useful. Are you?”

“that depends.”

“On…?”

“how useful you find being frustrated. you can have that answer for free, since it should have been pretty obvious.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re the absolute worst? Wait, don’t answer that one. I think I know already.” You decide to ignore him for a while in favour of eating your sandwich. Sans had finished his burger a while ago, but was still dancing the ketchup bottle between his palms.

“ok, last question then. i got places to be. like bed, i was up all night.” He leans forwards, elbows resting on the table. “what do I look like?”

“This is a trick question.”

“absolutely.”

You put the remains of your sandwich down and lean in. His obnoxiously bland face grins back at you. You’re about to give a sarcastic reply, when it changes. You realise he has two faces, one sitting on top of the other. As soon as you realise that, you also realise it makes no sense at all. Nonetheless, you try to focus on the one underneath, relaxing your gaze like you’re trying to work out a magic eye picture.

When it snaps into view you’re not ready. His empty eye sockets are lit impossibly from within, set in harsh planes of white bone, above a rictus grin.

You flinch away from Sans so hard you topple backwards off your chair and land in a sprawled heap, heart slamming in your chest. He rushes round the table to check you’re ok. His face is back to normal, for a given value of normal, and set in a concerned expression. You’re certain though that now you’ve seen his other one you could slide it into view whenever you wanted. You don’t try.

When he sees you’re ok he relaxes. He leans down and offers you a hand up. After a brief hesitation, you let him help you back to your seat. “well, how do i look?”

You glare. He knew that would happen.

“You look like a jerk.”

He laughs, collapsing back into his chair. You press your hands between your knees, willing them to stop shaking. You know you should be afraid, but at the same time it feels like you knew it all along. It was startling to see it properly, but not actually a surprise now you think about it.

“ok, you got me. guess i got my answer. and after i actually made an effort today. look, you ended up somewhere you shouldn’t have been able to be last night. and then, you remembered it when you shouldn’t have. that’s gonna get you some attention in certain places. just… keep an eye out for anything weird.”

“Weird like a talking skeleton with a condiment fetish?”

“yeah. like that.” He stands up, jamming the ketchup bottle he’d been toying with in his pocket. You pointedly don’t remark on it.

“So, you’re not going to jedi mind trick me again?”

“no reason to think it’d work any better this time, right? frankly, i’m too lazy to do something that be a waste of effort.”

“Before you go. Is your brother ok? You said he was there, last night. I guess he was dealing with that, whatever it was?”

He looks taken aback.

“yeah. he’s fine.”

“Say thanks to him for me, will you?”

“sure thing, kid.”

The dog leaves with him. You’re too rattled to fininsh your sandwich, which is a shame. It was pretty good.

You’re pretty sure Sans got more out of that little interview than you did, though you have no idea how since his questions were pretty random. The only conclusion you managed to come to is that either you’re losing your grip on reality, or some really weird stuff that you don’t understand is going on. Either way, you come out feeling pretty energised. Before shopping you manage to add a few things back onto your to-do list, and actually feel like a functional human being for a while. Today didn’t actually turn out so bad.

When you get home your old walking stick is leaning against your front door. There’s a note attached to it.

‘that’s another favour you owe me. now it should be easier for you to ketchup.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue skills are so rusty I'm surprised they haven't given me tetanus. I'm so sorry. One liners and dick jokes are my comfort zone.


	4. Normal is Relative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have been leaving such lovely comments, thank you, I honestly did not expect this much interest.

The next day you get up fully expecting more weirdness. It’s almost disappointing when nothing bizarre happens. For the whole next week nothing of note occurs at all.

Nothing major, at least. You get the feeling like someone’s following you whenever you’re out, which isn’t that often because the weather has decided to go haywire. It’s easy to put that down to common or garden paranoia, but the glimpses you catch out of the corner of your eye are less than normal. One day you get home and are struck with the absolute certainty that everything in your apartment has been moved very slightly. The day after, you find that all of your socks have been put into odd pairs, and all of your light-bulbs are missing.

Still, nothing is particularly out of the ordinary. You’re starting to wonder if that couple of days was someone's strange idea of a prank that they got tired of halfway through.

It’s not until you make a trip to check on your Grandmother’s empty house that you get some confirmation that it hadn’t just been a very vivid dream. You fight your way through an unexpected hailstorm, but by the time you get there the sun's out again and you're starting to sweat under the layers of sweater and coat.

It’s been almost four months since she passed away now, but approaching the house you still expect to see her waiting by the window. What you don’t expect is someone lying on the lawn, half obscured by overgrown grass and weeds, and lightly scattered with un-melted hailstones. You’re half hoping it’s just some drunk who passed out on the way home.

It’s Sans, because of course it is. And he’s talking to himself.

“you sure this is a good idea?” he murmurs, or something similar, you barely catch it. The sun catches you in the eyes and for a moment see the blurred after-image of a second figure standing over him. It’s gone when you blink. “can’t give me a hint, huh.”

“What are you doing down there?” He raises his head slightly to look you in the face.

“oh, hey, you live here as well?”

“No. Why are you lying on my lawn?”

“i’m vegetating. if you don’t live here, why is it your lawn?”

“It just is. Get up.”

“nah, it’s comfy.”

“Fine, whatever. Bye.” You carry on up the path, pulling out your door keys. The door is slightly swollen into the frame, and needs a solid hip check to get it open.

“you gonna invite me in?” Without seeing him move he’s standing behind you on the front step. You try not to let him see how much that unnerves you.

“What, are you like a vampire or something? You need permission?”

“vampires don’t need permission. and i just thought you might want to be polite.” He walks past you into the house.

You sigh, and traipse in after him, rubbing your abused hip.

“So you are following me then.” You immediately shed your coat and sweater, leaving them in a heap by the door. It's not like anyone's going to tell you to pick them up, after all.

“if i’m following you, why did i get here first?” If you ignore him, he might go away?

As expected there’s a metric ton of junk mail. You dump it onto the kitchen counter to sift through and check for anything important. Funny how even being dead can’t get you away from offers of car insurance deals, leaflets full of sad looking children and puppies asking for donations, and 2 for 1 pizza coupons. You pocket the coupons, and throw out the rest.

“this was your gran’s house, right?” You jump at the proximity, he’s right behind you again. There’s no way he’s not doing that on purpose. When you turn to face him it takes everything you’ve got not to flinch a second time, because he’s completely dropped whatever disguise it was he was wearing.

Yep, you hadn’t remembered wrong, the guy’s definitely a skeleton. Not a normal skeleton though, as if the situation could be any weirder at this point. His bones are way too thick, his whole frame unnaturally broad. His skull is close to twice the width of a human one. You’re sure he’s got bones in places they don’t really belong, too. Trying to imagine what he’d look like covered in muscle and skin conjures up some weird images.

“Yeah, how did you know?” You’re very proud of yourself for how casual your voice it. The top of his sternum is showing just above the collar of his t-shirt, if you stood on tiptoes you could probably see right down inside his ribcage. You wonder what he would do if you dropped something in there.

“educated guess. so how come you live in that tiny apartment instead of here?” He doesn’t open his mouth when he speaks. It should be one of the least strange things about the situation, but for some reason it really bothers you. At least he’s also nice enough not to mention the fact that you are absolutely staring.

“I dunno,” it’s your turn to shrug, “it’s just, it’s so big. I wouldn’t know what to do with this much space. And it feels weird. This was her house.”

It was yours now. You knew you should get around to selling it, but never seem to find the willpower. The house had been in the family for generations. No one except you gives a damn about it anymore, but it just feels so wrong to let it go. Even while your Grandmother was alive, most of the house wasn’t in use and hadn’t been for decades. The entire second floor had been empty as long as you remember. It had been a great place to play as a kid, with so many empty rooms.

By the time you’d come to help take care of your Gran, she’d moved everything she needed into two ground floor rooms next to the kitchen. The rest of the house had been left to gather dust and damp. An empty, echoey shell of a home. Whoever bought it would probably tear the whole thing down and start over. So for now you just come round occasionally to clear out the junk mail and check it’s still in one piece.

“Anyway,” you pull yourself out of the creeping melancholy, “you wanted something?”

“actually, you want something. you just don’t know it yet.”

“You sound like a second-hand car salesman.”

“well, it’s not really my thing, but if you’re in the market i know a guy. he got me a great deal on a bike a while back.”

“Why does a magical skeleton need a bike?”

“i don’t know, why does a magical skeleton need a bike?”

“I… was asking you.”

“oh. sorry. thought it was the setup to a joke.” He sounds genuinely disappointed. “anyway, you need information. and probably protection.”

“Is that a threat?”

“do i look like the kind of guy to make threats?”

“Well, I mean, you look like a skeleton, I really have no basis for comparison here. I can’t even tell what face you’re making right now. Because you don’t have one.”

“that’s cold buddy. i’m trying to be helpful here.”

“You’re not doing very well.”

He rubs his fingers (Finger bones? Phalanges? Your knowledge of anatomical terms is a little rusty. Better stick to ‘fingers’.) over his skull. If he did have a face, it would probably look exasperated.

“there’s not a lot i can tell you. i mean, i’m all for bending the rules till they snap, but there’s some things you just can’t get around, you know.” He takes in your completely nonplussed expression. “look, you probably noticed things have been a bit weird lately. what do you think is happening?”

“I’m standing in my dead Grandmother's kitchen talking to someone who looks like the personification of death. What I actually think is that I’ve lost it so hard I might never find it again. ‘It’ being my sanity. What would happen if I dropped something into your chest cavity by the way?”

“please don’t do that.” You’re getting a little better at interpreting the way the lights in his eyes change according to his tone, and could swear he looks alarmed.

“Right. Anyway, the amount of weirdness in my life would be seriously reduced if you would stop turning up just to talk cryptic bullshit at me. So, if you could stop doing it, that’d be great.”

He tilts his head back and stares intently at the ceiling. You’re pretty sure you can hear his jaw bones clenching. Ok, perhaps pissing off the magical skeleton who somehow always knows where you are was a bad move. There’s a nervous flutter in your chest and an apology on the tip of your tongue, but when he looks back at you again his voice is calm as ever.

“pretty soon you’re probably gonna need some help. and it’d be better if you had someone who was in a position to give it to you, without it costing you an arm and a leg. i’m bein’ literal here.” Ok, nervous flutter is back full force. “you’re gonna need a patron.”

“Let me guess. You?”

“good one, kid,” he chuckles “my bro had to confiscate my pet rock because i couldn’t look after it, you don’t want me for a job that important.”

“I’ve been fine so far, and I really can’t see what I need help with. So far you’re the only thing out of the ordinary. I’ll be fine.” If you keep saying it, you might start believing it. But, ignoring the fact that you’ve been feeling on a knife edge all week, there’s no reason to believe it’s not true. And there’s certainly no reason to trust that Sans actually wants to help you out.

“if you say so.” He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. You can’t help but fixate on the bones of his hand when he passes it to you. It’s a section torn off a Chinese takeaway menu, with a phone number scrawled on it in the worst handwriting you’ve seen outside of a primary school. “you change your mind, call that number. don’t wait too long this time.”

You turn the piece of paper over in your fingers a couple of times, then stick it in your pocket.

“Why couldn’t the magical skeleton ride his bike?”

“why not?” It might be your imagination, but you’re sure his grin gets wider.

“Because it was two tired.”

“apology accepted. see you around, kid.” He walks out into the hall and shuts himself into the cupboard under the stairs. You open it to check, even though you know he won’t be in there.

When you get home there are three cats sitting in your living room, and noises of minor devastation coming from your kitchen. This tells you your upstairs neighbour has let herself in and is making you both food. This isn’t particularly unusual — there’s only the two of you in the building, the basement apartment has been empty as long as you’ve been there, and you swapped spare keys a while ago in case of emergencies. It didn’t take long for ‘emergencies’ to turn into ‘i need someone to watch this terrible anime with’ or ‘i cooked way too much chili, please help before i drown in it’.

You mentally readjust for imminent social interaction, and silently thank whichever gods are listening that you don’t have to try to make food tonight.

“Hey, I’m here.” You gently nudge a cat out of the way to flop sideways onto the sofa. It begrudgingly leaps off, and takes up a position on one of the many packing boxes you haven’t got around to emptying yet. Tidying is hard.

Your neighbour sticks her head out of the kitchen, and gives you a toothy grin. It occurs that you’ve been getting a lot of those lately. She’s tall, and fit, and attractive in a way that highlights all of your own flaws. She’s also the most enthusiastically talkative person you’ve ever met, and you have to wonder why she hangs out with you, especially on days you can barely string five words together.

“Hey nerd, how was your week?”

“Oh my God, so weird.” You moan.

“I like weird, weird is interesting. And interesting is better than my week. Oh, hope you’re hungry, I’m making vegetable lasagna.”

“Will you marry me?”

She picks up the pile of clothing you dumped on your way in, somehow managing to avoid falling over despite the cat winding itself around her ankles. They're not even hers, they just seem to follow her around. She barely seems to notice them anymore.

“When you learn to tidy up after yourself, sure.”

“Guess our relationship is doomed then.” She hangs your coat up, causing a brief pang of guilt on your part, then squashes herself onto the part of the sofa you’re not taking up and wriggles determinedly until you make enough space for her.

“So, spill, what was so weird?”

You fill her in on the more believable bits, but she still gives you a pretty sceptical look. She doesn’t tell you you’re nuts though, which is kinda appreciated.

“So you think this guy is following you? Creepy.”

“I dunno, he seems ok. Maybe. He's kinda hard to read.”

“Sounds like an asshole to me,” she laughs.

You spend the rest of the evening eating way too much lasagna and watching the weirdest stuff you can find on Netflix, until your neighbour calls it a night and heads back upstairs. It’s reassuringly normal.

You wake up in the middle of the night to the horrifying knowledge that there’s someone else in your apartment.


	5. Smoke and Mirrors

Staying at your Grandmother’s house for a weekend used to be the highlight of your childhood. The garden was huge, or felt it at that age, with plenty of trees to climb and places to make dens. It would have been the perfect place to play with a friend, but was almost as good just by yourself. If it rained, she’d give you free reign of the upstairs rooms. You used to get home-made cake, and meals that didn’t come out of a microwave. The only thing you hated was going to sleep. Big, old, empty houses are full of nighttime noises. You have a lot of memories of lying awake, head buried under the covers until it got difficult to breath, or eyes wide open to catch any sign of movement, dreading the moment you were sure would come when you’d hear footsteps outside your door.

Just like now. You lie very still, breathing as quietly as possible. Hoping against hope that you don’t hear another sound. It’s being a child all over again, afraid of the dark or the thing under the bed. Crap, if there’s something under the bed… you don’t want to think about that. Except now you can’t stop.

You wait. A small eternity passes and nothing happens. You’re about to decide it was nothing and reach for the light switch, when there’s a long creak from the next room. You kitchen door always makes that sound when it opens. You’ve been planning greasing the hinges ever since you moved in, but now you’re very glad you didn’t.

Where’s your phone? A sensible person would keep it by their bed, which is probably why it’s in your bag. On the sofa. In the same room as that noise.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

The only option left is the window. It’s not the shortest drop to the ground, but risking a sprained ankle seems an acceptable gamble. You roll out of bed silently, making your limbs work when they’re half paralysed with fear isn’t easy but somehow you manage it. Ok, step one down. Step two, get to the window. Not too difficult, there’s just enough light coming through it to see your way.

Getting the window open quietly is another matter, the old wooden frame has been painted and re-painted and it sticks like hell. You give it a gentle shove, and nothing at all happens. You try a steady, controlled force to much the same effect. The sound of movement just outside your door is enough to throw caution to the metaphorical winds, which can’t be present because the damn window won’t open. You give an almighty push with everything you’ve got.

The window lets out the most tortured, soul-destroying screech you’ve ever heard, and opens a whole three inches.

When your bedroom door clicks open you freeze, as if that’ll help, then your flight instinct kicks in and you force the window with an extra burst of strength. It open another six inches. Not enough. You have a second to decide on trying to smash it and damn the consequences before you’re spun around and grabbed by the neck.

This makes no sense. None. Because you’re looking into your own face. Hair, eyes, skin all the same. You’ve never seen that expression on your face though. You hope nobody has.

You reach past yourself with the hand that isn’t holding you by the throat, and push the window the rest of the way up like it’s nothing. It only takes a small shove for your torso to be hanging out over thin air. The part of your brain that was too stunned to react suddenly kicks back to life. You clutch desperately at the hand around your throat, digging your nails into cold and unyielding flesh.

Your heart is hammering so loud you can hear it. No, wait, that’s not entirely it. Someone’s knocking at your door. Opening your mouth to call for help leads to the hand around your throat tightening, cutting off the plea in a strangled yelp. Trying to kick out leads to losing the last bit of leverage you had. Your lower back scrapes against the window frame as you’re pushed further out. You stop tyring to remove their hand in favour of clinging onto their arm. If you don’t let go they can’t drop you, right?

Everything’s getting a little fuzzy at the edges, and not in a warm sort of way. A tingling feeling that’s part panic-attack and part asphyxiation is creeping up your limbs. Distantly you hear your front door slam open.

You’re drowning in rushing, icy smoke.

When you come round you’re lying on the floor in the recovery position, a pillow under your head and a blanket over you. Your neighbour is hovering over you, looking panicked.

“Hey, Kay,” you rasp.

“Oh thank God, I was just about to call an ambulance? Are you ok? Do you want an ambulance, because I can still call one?” She’s talking too fast, like she always does when she’s under stress. It’s a little bit dizzying right now.

“No thanks.” Talking kinda hurts. “Are they gone?” With a little effort you push yourself into a sitting position. Aside from a very sore throat and a couple of scraps, everything seems in one piece, physically at least.

“There was someone here? Shit, I heard noises and came to check on you. When you didn’t answer the door I let myself in. You were just passed out on the floor. They must have gone out the window.”

“Could you check?” You feel silly asking, but you want to be really sure that thing isn’t still here.

“Of course, you stay put. Wait, actually,” before you can protest she scoops you up in her arms, blanket and all, and puts you gently on the bed. “There,” she grins.

She grabs your walking stick, holding it like a sword, and under your direction checks every space in your apartment capable of hiding a person, and several that probably aren’t. There's a dent in the plaster behind the front where the handle slammed into it (Kay looks a little sheepish when you point it out, though you're not about to complain) but no sign of an entry, forced or otherwise.

When you’re both satisfied there’s no one else there she sits beside you on the bed and demands an explanation. You’re too tired to make up something rational, so you tell her everything.

“You need to call the police.” That’s what you were worried she’d say.

“And what do I say when they ask what they looked like?”

“Tell them you didn’t get a good look, on account of being strangled. Or that they were wearing a mask. Don’t give me that look, someone broke into your apartment and tried to throw you out the window.” She looks at you sternly. “That’s what we call a crime.”

“And lying to the police isn’t?” You burrow further into your blanket nest, wrapping your arms tight around yourself. “I dunno. There’s no sign of how they got in. What if I imagined it? What if I was sleep walking, or had some sort of seizure?” You’re pretty sure that wasn’t the case. You’re pretty sure you know exactly what happened.

“Then we should go back to plan A and call you an ambulance.” You shake your head silently. She’s clearly about to protest again, but thinks better of it. “Ok, we’ll talk about this tomorrow. You gonna be ok?” she asks instead. You probably look like a trembling wreck now the adrenaline is wearing off.

“I really don’t know.”

“Wanna stay the night at my place?”

You nearly cry from gratitude. It takes a lot of convincing for her not to carry you up the stairs, but you manage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I planned for such a short (and Sans-free) chapter (I know why you're really here), so sorry about that. I was that hellish combination of ill and busy. So hyped for the next few chapters though, you have no idea. Your comments continue to be lovely. If I were less socially stunted I'd respond to them all, but as it is I'm very grateful to everyone who leaves their thoughts here.


	6. Cross-Purpose

You wake up to a face full of fern. There’s a moment of acute disorientation when you realise you’re not in your own bed, before you remember the events of the previous night. Ok, you hadn’t actually expected to get any real sleep after that. Kay had been very supportive, until 3am rolled around, when she nicely reminded you that she had work in the morning and dumped bodily into her own bed with a large glass of something highly medicinal-tasting, and gone to sleep on the sofa. You’d drifted in and out after that, waking up in a semi-conscious panic a few times, but must have fallen into a proper sleep at some point.

You have to fight your way through a small forest of houseplants to find an alarm clock, which informs you that it’s 8:23am. It feels weird to go back to sleep in someone else’s bed, even if you could really use the rest, so you get up. In the daylight the whole bizarre situation feels like a particularly vivid nightmare, but a look in the mirror shows a ring of bruises around your neck that say otherwise.

There’s no sign of Kay, but there’s a cereal bar and a sticky note waiting for you on the kitchen counter. The note is mostly an apology for having to leave you for the day, with a reassurance that if you need anything you can call her. The cereal bar has far too many raisins in to consider eating, but you appreciate the thought.

Despite knowing you checked everywhere thoroughly last night, returning to your apartment is a nerve-wracking experience. You need a shower and some clothes at least though. The whole time you’re in the shower you’re on edge, half expecting someone to creep up on you and rip back the curtain, and you can't get out again fast enough. For once, you can’t wait to leave the house. Unfortunately there’s something you need to do first. You grab yesterday’s jeans from the pile on the floor, and search the pockets until you find the scrap of menu with the phone number on it.

It takes four attempts before you finally hold your breath and press dial. It rings barely more than once before someone answers.

“HELLO?!” You flinch at the unexpected volume of the greeting, and hold the phone away from your head a little.

“H-hello?” You were expecting Sans. Is this a wrong number, the writing was so bad you might have misread it. Or was he playing a joke on you?

“HELLO!”

“Hi, I, um, I’m sorry to bother you… Sans gave me this number?”

“WE DO NOT WISH TO BUY SOLAR PANELS, OUR WINDOWS ARE ADEQUATELY GLAZED, AND I DON’T HAVE A PPI! WHATEVER THAT IS.”

“What?” Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t this.

“Oh, I’m sorry, when Sans gives someone my number it is usually with the purpose of annoying me. What do you need?” Ok, so not a wrong number. That gives you a little more confidence in what you have to say next.

“He said something about needing a patron? I don’t really know what it means exactly, but he seemed to think it was important.” The line goes quiet for a moment.

“And he suggested me?” He sounds almost surprised.

“I suppose so, yes.”

“THEN IT IS MY DUTY TO BE THE BEST PATRON THAT YOU COULD HOPE TO GET. YOU WILL NOT REGRET THIS CHOICE, HUMAN! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS AN EXCELLENT MENTOR!”

The line goes dead as he hangs up. You’re ears are still ringing when, a few seconds later, your phone buzzes in your hand. It’s the same number you just called. You aren’t given a chance to even say hello as you answer.

“There is no time to waste! Do you know Bella Romagna?” You nod, then realise that he can’t see you over the phone. “EXCELLENT! I shall meet you there in one hour.” The phone goes dead again. You didn’t even get a word out.

This morning is going to be… interesting.

You can’t deal with the bus today, so take a taxi across town. It’s expensive, but the way the driver keeps glancing at the bruises on your neck makes you glad you’re not dealing with public transport. You also wish you’d thought to grab a scarf before you left. You curl your hands around the hem of your coat, and count lampposts to distract yourself from the gymnastics your stomach is doing.

The restaurant a little family run Italian place, squashed between an overpriced coffee shop and a boarded-up travel agent. It’s open seven days a week in theory, but seems to run on it’s own bizarre schedule. The owner is getting in on in years, but her age and diminutive size clearly haven’t impacted her lung capacity, because she’s belting out a ballad along with the radio at full volume.

It’s obvious which is the right table because it’s the only one occupied. No one goes to an Italian restaurant for breakfast. Sans is there, bundled in a fleecy hoodie with his head pillowed on his arms, which actually makes you feel a little better. Huh. The lanky figure next to him is diligently working his way though a large plate of spaghetti. They’re not even serving that at this time in the morning. You sidle up to the counter, but he’s too involved in his pasta to notice you yet. You try to order a coffee, and get shouted at in Italian until you somehow end up with an almond pastry too. It’s equal parts endearing and anxiety-inducing.

While waiting for your coffee you try to get a proper look at the man you’re apparently meeting. At first glance he looks completely normal. Absolutely, meticulously normal, in a way that Sans never seems to manage. You try to look past that though, the same way you did before. It’s harder this time, like something is actively resisting. You try to relax, let your mind go blank, and see what’s right in front of you.

It’s like an elastic band twang to the brain when it happens, but at least you’re expecting it this time. He’s another skeleton. Taller, thinner, more angular, but otherwise not much different from Sans. It’s almost a disappointment, they could be brothers. Didn’t Sans mention a brother?

Maybe you just have magical-skeleton-vision? Out of curiosity, you try the same thing on the lady behind the counter. For your trouble you get a headache and a weird look, accompanied by another string of Italian along with your coffee. Ok, so strike this place of the list of places you can ever show your face again. Embarrassment trumps nerves, you babble out a thank you and hurry over to the table.

When the taller skeleton spots you he practically vaults up in greeting. Oh, wow, when he unfolds from the chair he’s actually a lot taller than you thought. Sans doesn’t even twitch.

“Hi, Papyrus? You’re Sans brother, right?” You have to crane your neck back to look at him. How did he fit his knees under the table?

“YES! How did you know?” He's beaming, and you're struck by how easy his expression is to read compared to his brother.

“Educated guess.”

“Wowie, you must be very educated. Unless Sans told you. Which would be very rude, because he hasn’t told me anything at all about you.” He pulls a chair out for you then sits down again, which is a relief to your neck, so you follow suit. It’s a good job it’s a big table, because the answer to the question of his knees is that his legs stretch out all the way to the other side.

“No, I don’t really know, well, anything. Like, what I’m doing here…”

“Worry not, human, all will be explained. LATER! FIRST, THERE ARE THE TESTS!”

“Tests?” Why is that word always accompanied by a sinking feeling, regardless of context? He seems very enthusiastic about them at least. The sheer onslaught of cheerful energy makes it difficult to be too worried.

“Yes! Tests, tasks, trials! Three is traditional, and also begins with a T. You could consider them quests if you prefer, I suppose, but since I am a benevolent mentor you may perform the first one from the comfort of this fine establishment. Which makes it… not very quest-like.” He clears his throat. “Anyway! I shall assign you three tasks to test the integrity of your mind, body and soul! Then, if you meet my exceedingly high standards, we may enter into a contract.” Well, you already consider yourself screwed on at least two out of three counts. An uncomfortable thought occurs to you.

“Is there a, um, a penalty for failure?” You’re starting to get an inkling of exactly what you might be getting into. You think you hear a quiet noise of approval from the blue hoodie-bundle next to you, but you might have imagined it.

“Yes! A most severe one.” He looks extremely serious. Right, here it comes. “You will not gain the benefit of my expert tutelage.” You wait.

“Is that it?”

“I know, a harsh penalty to pay, but rules are rules. Do you agree to these terms?”

“Yes?” If he asks you to sign something in blood though, you’re gone.

“Very well! You do not sound certain, but I shall assume that you are simply overawed by my presence. Here is you first challenge, a test of the mind.” He sets a piece of paper and a pen down in front of you. With all the anticipation that had built up, it takes a moment to register what you’re looking at.

“It’s a crossword.”

“Indeed.” He cackles, not just a laugh but a full blown cackle. It’s wonderful. “I shall return in three hours, by which time this devious conundrum must be fully completed. Then we can have spaghetti together, to celebrate you inevitable victory! Good luck, human!”

Three hours seems a long time for a crossword puzzle, but Papyrus has dramatically exited the restaurant before you can question it. Sans doesn’t seem to be going anywhere though. You glare at the top of his fuzzy, blue head.

“You failed to mention anything about tests.”

“yep.”

“He really likes spaghetti, huh?”

“yep.” You sigh, and settle in to get to work. This shouldn’t be too bad at least.

Two hours and three cups of coffee later and you’re not even halfway done. You rest your head on the table and groan. Ok, it might be closer to a sob. This isn’t going well. In your relief at the mundanity of the task, you’d failed to take into account that it was a cryptic crossword he’d left you. You can’t even begin to comprehend how people actually do these for fun. Remembering why you were desperate enough to come here in the first place doesn’t help.

“I’m going to die. Because I suck at crosswords.” You pound your forehead gently on the table a few times, hoping to rattle loose an answer.

“getting a little cross?” Sans sits up, pulling his hood back, and you jump slightly. He’d been quietly snoring for so long, you’d almost forgotten he was there.

“That one was lame.”

“gimmie a break pal, it’s early.”

“It’s nearly noon.”

“like i said.”

“I think I’d actually have preferred if he’d asked me to, I dunno, count a huge pile of poppy seeds. Or make him a shirt without stitches. At least then I wouldn’t feel so bad about failing.”

Sans is eyeing the bruises on your neck with an unreadable expression. Not that you’re particularly good at reading it at the best of times. You reflexively pull the collar of your shirt up a little higher, which seems to snap him out of whatever he was thinking.

“i’m allowed to give hints if you need. one per task.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier? Like, an hour ago?” You consider throwing your pen at him, but the caffeine jitters would probably throw your aim off. And then you’d have to pick up the pen. “Well, hint away then. Please.”

“seven down is ‘moiety’.” You’re sceptical because he hasn’t even glanced at the page the whole time you’ve been working, but it seems to fit.

“That’s not a hint, Sans.” You fill it in anyway.

“it’s right though. you have my word.” You make a quiet, pained noise in the back of your throat. “heh, tough crowd. ok then, you have a smartphone right? all the cool kids do, i hear.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“pfft, cheating is part of the package with these things, practically traditional. it’s not even technically against the rules.” A brief guilty look crosses his face, despite his reassurance. “don’t tell papyrus though. he’d be… disappointed.”

You wrestle with your morals for all of three seconds, before pulling your phone out. The restaurant doesn’t have wifi, but the coffee shop next door does. Score.

“Disappointed as in as in ‘I expected better’, or disappointed like code for ‘actually furious’?” You’re committed to cheating now, but it seems best to know what you’re signing up for.

“you know that look dogs give you when they run up to you expecting pets, and you accidentally step on them instead? he thinks he was doing you a favour by not giving you the jumble.”

“Oh. Ok, ouch, I won’t tell him.”

“good choice.”

Sans pulls his hood back up and yanks on the drawstring. Apparently the conversation is over. Even with the power of the internet at your disposal it takes another half hour to fill in the rest of the crossword. You’ve probably already had quite enough coffee, so you buy a celebratory hot chocolate instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I made a fic tumblr. Will probably post some mythology rambles which won't make it into the fic at some point, or something, I dunno. Don't really know what I'm doing with it yet, but if you wanna say hi it's at lore-breaker.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is absolutely welcome. I haven't posted anything in a long time, and I'm mostly writing this for myself, since the idea just wouldn't let me sleep at night.
> 
> On the subject of writing in second person - I don't usually do this (except when writing super self-indulgent kink meme stuff). In this case, I tried a couple of different POVs, but this was the one that just seemed to click. The main character is not exactly meant as a reader insert, but not exactly not either.
> 
> On the subject of writing a disabled main character - I'm not physically disabled myself, but I want to get it right. So, if I get something wrong or there's something I haven't considered when writing this, please feel free to tell me and I will correct it.


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